sofasurfers

Three trips to Khodja Ahmed Yassaui’s Mausoleum at Turkestan are, apparently, considered as holy as one trip to Mecca. Holy by Kazakh standards, of course, can include unlimited vodka (or fermented camel’s milk, if you prefer).

But surely, we thought, we’d be safe from the seemingly eternal urge to swindle here, while under the watchful eye of the Almighty. And indeed we were - we just weren’t safe from our own entrenched cynicism. “Would you like an English guide?” said a sweet, pretty young Kazakh. Hmmm, we replied, with narrowed eyes. How much? “It’s free!” Yes, and then how much, we retorted (because surely nothing is free here - it hasn’t been so far: toilets, Kodak moments… even the hitchhikers don’t come to Kazakhstan because all drivers charge for a ride)? “It’s free!” You promise? “Yes!” My guilt for being so suspicious shadowed me throughout our tour; it sat down beside us in the staff restaurant as our guide invited us to dine with her without the other tourists (where we paid staff prices). It even handed over my guide book involuntarily, when she asked if she could photocopy it (but I was charmed - she wants to learn recycled information about the Mausoleum from a British guide book). “That will be 1,000 Tenge,” I teased, when she returned it to me, taking a swipe at the national habit for charging for everything. And then I felt really guilty, when she clearly didn’t realise I was joking. I’d better book in for a return trip.